


On The Sidelines

by beef_wonder3



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s01e03 The Great Game, Gen, Remember when we only has 3 episodes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-17
Updated: 2012-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:48:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25816051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beef_wonder3/pseuds/beef_wonder3
Summary: Lestrade and Mycroft after the Pool Explosion
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Kudos: 13





	On The Sidelines

The rain fell lightly but consistently, soaking everything, leaving nothing untouched.  
  
Lestrade was sodden, his coat heavy as he flitted from team to team, assessing what needed to be done. Smoke and sirens invaded the air, the bustle of people making it impossible to move.  
  
Lestrade skirted around the search and rescue dogs, barking madly and pulling their leads, towards the fireman calling for his attention.  
  
“What’s going on?” Lestrade demanded impatiently,  
“The building’s secure for now but we can’t send more than the rescue team and bomb squad. We don’t know if there are any more explosives, so sit tight yeah?” The exhausted looking fireman told the DI. Lestrade nodded and moved on to the Rescue team leader.  
  
“How many are we looking for, Greg?” the man asked him.  
“At least two,” replied Lestrade, wiping a hand over his face, “possibly more. Just find as many as you can.”  
  
Lestrade watched as the man nodded and directed his own team, and their canine helpers, towards the half collapsed building.  
‘Please God.’ Lestrade thought, ‘Don’t you dare be dead, you stupid twat.’ Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose, the ache behind his eyes matching the thumping ache of worry in his chest.  
  
“Sir? Any news yet?” Asked Sergeant Donovan, striding up to Lestrade.  
“Not yet, Sally.” He replied, feeling tired to his very bones.  
  
“So stupid. What the fuck were they even doing here?” Sally asked.  
“I have no idea.” Lestrade sighed, “Let’s just hope we can ask them.” Sally’s frowned deepened and Lestrade could see the worry etched into each line of her face. He laid a hand on her shoulder, trying to reassure her, “It’s Sherlock and John, an explosion is more than likely no more than a minor annoyance to them. Especially Sherlock. It would interfere with his work.”  
  
“Like a cockroach.” Sally muttered but despite her bluster, Lestrade saw the fond smile tug at her lips. Sally sighed and leaned against the bonnet of the ambulance, “I told him.” She sighed again, “I told him he should find a hobby.”  
  
“Who, John?” Lestrade asked  
  
“Yeah” Sally confirmed. Lestrade leaned against the bonnet next to her and chuckled a little ruefully,  
“As odd as it sounds, I think Sherlock _is_ John’s hobby.”  
  
Sally chuckled as well before saying somberly, “I hope they’re okay.” She talked quietly, so only Lestrade could hear her, “He’s become a lot more bearable since he met John.”  
  
Lestrade could only nod, the tight ache of worry seizing his chest again as he watched people pick apart the smashed remains of the pool building. A flash out of the corner of Lestrade’s eye took his attention as a sleek black car pulled up, releasing a tall, stiff postured man opening an umbrella against the rain.  
  
“Keep an eye on it.” Lestrade instructed Donovan, nodding towards the destroyed building and the swarms of crisis officials. Sally nodded and Lestrade started towards the new arrival.  
  
The man didn’t move; his eyes fixed on the aftermath of the explosion, then flicking to the stagnant ambulances, waiting to be called. As Lestrade drew closer, he could see the man’s face, usually so calm, so stoic, now looking so foreign, fear and grief warring on his sharp features.  
  
“Mycroft.” Was all Lestrade said as he came to stand in front of him. Mycroft clearly struggled as his gaze fixed on Lestrade, seemingly at a loss for words.  
  
“We haven’t found them yet.” Lestrade said quietly, “but we’ve got a team in there now.” Mycroft seemed to crumple right before Lestrades eyes, hope vanishing like a release of breath.  
  
“I don’t,” Mycroft said, his eyes closed in pain, “I don’t know what I’ll do if he’s….” Mycroft’s halted, choked as he continued to look away from Lestrade.  
  
And Lestrade remembered. He remembered the haunting grief of the man he met at Sherlock’s bedside 4 years ago. Lestrade had already spent a year seeing Sherlock sporadically, letting him help on cases, even when Lestrade really shouldn’t have and refusing to give him cases when he was high. A jumbled and worrying text leading to Lestrade finding Sherlock, OD-ing on badly cut cocaine, because he simply couldn’t afford any better.  
  
16 hours in the hospital later, Lestrade had woken to find a distraught man standing vigil beside Sherlock.  
“This is my fault.” The man had whispered.  
“How?” Lestrade had asked warily, unsure of this stranger.  
“Because I cut him off.” He had replied, “If I hadn’t taken away his money, he wouldn’t have bought something so obviously tainted.”  
  
“You’re Sherlock’s brother.” Lestrade had said in realization.  
  
“Mycroft Holmes.” The man introduced, “Under other circumstances I would say it was nice to meet you Sergeant, but unfortunately…” Mycroft trailed off.  
  
Lestrade snapped back from his memory, the haunted look he had seen the day he met the elder Holmes, clear on Mycroft’s face now.  
  
“This isn’t your fault.” Lestrade told him.  
“I know,” Mycroft said, “When I discover whose fault it is, though. I will destroy them.”  
  
Mycroft tone was cool but the seriousness on his face, as he finally looked at Lestrade, revealed that he spoke the utter truth.  
“Sherlock, will probably want a go at them first.” Lestrade said. Mycroft’s shoulders slumped as he gazed at the wreck of the building again. Following his gaze, Lestrade whispered,  
“Mycroft,” as the only warning before he stepped forward, pulling Mycroft towards him, a hand on his head, bringing him in close.  
  
“We’ll find them.” Lestrade whispered to him, “We’ll find them and they’ll be okay.”  
  
Mycroft leaned into Lestrade’s comfort, one hand holding his umbrella over them both while his other came up to rest on Lestrades’ waist. The two men stayed like that for long, quite minuets, indulging in each other’s comfort while people rushed around the scene behind them.  
  
Wild barking and shouts for the ambulance officers had them breaking apart to quickly rush towards the shouting. Lestrade cupped a hand to Mycrofts’ elbow, leading the taller man through the crowd as two gurneys were trundled out of the pool building.  
  
Holding their breath, Lestrade and Mycroft froze as the, now occupied, gurneys came closer.  
  
“It’s them!” Sergeant Donavan announced loudly, rushing up, breathless to the two men, “It’s Sherlock and John. They’re unconscious but alive.” Waves of relief swept through Lestrade even as he heard Mycroft inhale sharply in his own relief.  
  
Alive. They were alive.  
  
“We’ll go with them to the hospital.” Lestrade announced, and instructed Sally, “You keep an eye on here. Get as much information from the bomb squad as you can.”  
Sally nodded and began taking charge of the scene.  
  
Lestrade grasped Mycroft’s elbow again and steered him towards the ambulances that were loading up John and Sherlock.  
“I’ll meet you at the hospital.” Lestrade said to Mycroft, “I’ll go with John.”  
Mycroft nodded and cleared his throat, hands automatically straitening his suit jacket, composure falling back into place now that the worst was over.  
  
“Yes, and their room will be arranged for their arrival. And I’ll ensure your access to them; no need to worry about the family-only rule.”  
  
Mycroft cleared his throat again and readjusted his grip on his umbrella before turning towards Sherlock’s ambulance. He hesitated for a moment before turning back to Lestrade, who had already turned towards John’s ride.  
“Greg,” Mycroft called.  
  
Lestrade turned to him again as Mycroft paused and Lestrade saved him the trouble of continuing,  
“You’re welcome, Mycroft.” He smiled at the other man, “I’ll see you at the hospital, yeah?”  
  
Mycroft returned his smile, nodded once and turned, striding purposefully to climb into the back of the ambulance with his brother.  
Lestrade smiled to himself this time and repeated Mycrofts’ actions and joined a still unconscious, but breathing (thank god), John in the back of his ambulance.  
  
Sherlock and John were alive and Lestrade hoped that they could shed some light on what the bloody hell happened. And if they thought they were going to get out of the serious interrogation and the lecture on dangerous explosives Lestrade was planning, they were delusional as well.  
  
Lestrade watched the ambulance officer as he checked over John’s vitals again, looking away when his phone pinged in his pocket. Lestrade took it out and read the text he had received,  
  
 _Thank you.  
  
MH_  
  
Lestrade smiled again and thought,  
‘You’re welcome.’

**Author's Note:**

> Archiving fic from my lj days.


End file.
